


the truth runs wild like the rain to the sea

by lilliputianmerriell



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 22:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilliputianmerriell/pseuds/lilliputianmerriell
Summary: A picture is worth a thousand words, but Burgie discovers that one particular letter is worth infinitely more.





	the truth runs wild like the rain to the sea

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kay and Jay for listening to me bitch about this fic for ages and helping me out like always! 
> 
> Title from the song "Heaven" by Troye Sivan ft. Betty Who. It really is such a gorgeous tune.

It’s well into the evening when the cab pulls up to the small, ramshackle house at the end of the street. The garden is covered in weeds and the grass looks like it hasn’t seen a lawnmower in quite some time, but the porch is surprisingly nicely kept with small flowerpots scattered around and a hammock tied up between two support beams. There’s still light coming from one of the open windows despite the late hour, and Burgie squints to try detect any movement inside from where he is firmly seated in the cab.

“You gettin’ out, pal?”

Burgie jumps at the sound of the cab driver’s voice, glancing over at the haggard man staring at him expectantly. The driver’s eyes sit deep in their sockets, the irises practically black and impenetrable, and Burgie finds himself unable to meet that gaze so his eyes slip down to the letter he is clutching desperately in his hands.

The paper is already worn and crinkled, having been folded and unfolded so many times now that it is in danger of falling apart between his fingers.

_‘Dearest Romus, I am sorry I didn’t write sooner,’_ it starts, and Burgie thumbs the delicate scratch of ink against the yellowed paper as he heaves a gut-deep sigh. Gently, he folds the letter back up and then quickly tucks it back into his bag before he changes his mind about this whole thing.

Burgie pays the cab driver and jumps out the car, shouldering the duffel bag he’s brought with him. He hears the cab turn the corner, but his attention is still at that single lit window as he slowly makes his way towards the house.

The grass is dewy underneath the sole of his shoes, though he barely notices the way the fabric of them soak up the water and seep into his socks. His mind is reeling with what he is doing; with how he is running away from his responsibilities, his loving family, to seek out a man who probably hasn’t spared him a single thought since they parted ways on that train so many months ago.

A shadow moves behind the drawn curtains that are shielding the house’s interior and occupant from view, and as he gets closer Burgie can hear faint music seeping through the old wood of the walls. It is surprisingly sombre, and while Burgie isn’t able to hear the lyrics he could only guess it is about lost love or something in that vein. It always fucking is.   

The noise of his knuckle rapping on the white-painted door echoes in the small space surrounding him and carries into the house. As the noise fades, it gives way for the sounds of footsteps padding against the floor, and Burgie barely has time to notice how close they actually are before the door swings open to reveal Snafu standing in the opening.

Snafu is somehow different from how Burgie remembers him.

Maybe it is the civilian clothing he is wearing that is throwing Burgie's mind for a loop, having never gotten to see this side of Snafu before. Their marine uniforms were designed to be all the same, with that dull green colour that did nothing to compliment any sort of features whatsoever. Now though, Snafu’s upper body is covered in an old and worn grey shirt that does a poor job to conceal his thin chest and jeans that look like they’ve been washed one too many times. To compliment the civilian look, Snafu’s curls are even wilder than before, bouncing around on his head and around his ears in untamed, dark coils that doesn’t look like they’ve seen any scissors since Burgie and Snafu parted ways on the train. His curls partially obscured his face but did nothing to hide the deep, dark groves underneath his eyes.

Not that Burgie is one to judge, he barely slept these days either.

“Burgie.”

“Snafu.”

Snafu casually rests his hip against the doorframe, his arms folding across his chest while his eyes rummage Burgie’s face, carefully assessing him the same way that Burgie had Snafu.

Burgie supposes he’s changed quite a bit too. Only about a week ago he had cropped his hair short, though he isn’t entirely sure why he’d done it. He should have spent the time shaving his facial hair rather than his head, but it is too late to do anything about it now.

“You’re far from home,” Snafu observes breezily, though his tense posture and how his attention is trained on the light duffle that Burgie has slung over his shoulder betray his casual tone.

“Needed a change of scenery,” Burgie offers as an explanation. He knows he should probably have notified Snafu ahead of time, but that would have led to a lot of unpleasant questions he’d rather not answer right now.  

“And therefore you decided to come here.”

“Yeah.”

There is a long silence as they stare each other down, one scrutinizing while the other tries to look as blank and unreadable as possible.

When Snafu realises he won’t be getting any more explanation out Burgie, he huffs and pushes himself off the doorframe, “Alright. Come in, I guess.” Snafu abandons the doorway and takes a sharp turn around the corner leading into the only room with its’ lights switched on in the house.

Burgie stares absently at the spot where Snafu had been standing only seconds ago before he collects himself enough to follow him into a small kitchen.

It’s dimly lit with cigarette smoke clouding the air and painting the pale-yellow walls in shades of grey. A scarce assortment of mismatched furniture and utilities are littered around the room, and Burgie finds himself examining them all curiously from the scratched-up table covered in newspapers and dishes, to the plates and mugs in different shapes, sizes and colours, to the three chairs that looked like they’d been stolen from differently themed restaurants.

“Want a drink?” Snafu asks as he takes a seat in one of the chairs, shaking a bottle of dark liquid that swivel around its’ flask temptingly.

“Nah, I’m alright.” Burgie drops his bag onto the floor and takes a seat opposite him, watching Snafu shrug before pouring himself two fingers into the tumbler already sitting in front of him on the table. A packet of smokes also sits between the two of them on the table top and Burgie stretches over wordlessly to grab and examine it. “Not feelin’ so lucky anymore?”

Snafu grunts from behind the glass he is sipping at. “Camels got more kick to ‘em.”

Burgie thumbs over the cartoonish-looking camel printed onto the front of the carton, noting how there were only a couple of cigarettes left in there before he sets it back onto the table, turning his focus to Snafu once more. “How’ya been?”

“Fine,” Snafu answers carefully, his lips pressing together. “Alive, ain’t I.” As he says this, he tosses back the rest of his drink, making Burgie almost grimace from the second-hand taste of it.

There is a lot more to his answer than Burgie cared to examine in that moment, so he just nods understandingly. No one of them wanted to talk about that time in their lives, even less so the aftermath.

Maybe it’d been a mistake coming here.

Burgie knew what had driven him away from his home in Texas, but he isn’t exactly sure what had brought him to Snafu. He’d been acting on instinct, on an intrinsic impulse that had insisted that this is somewhere safe. This is somewhere he needed to be. Now, he isn’t so sure.

“If you plan on stayin’ then I ain’t got any futon or any shit like that, but the couch ain’t too bad. A bit lumpy in some places though,” Snafu says, those big eyes of his carefully assessing Burgie’s reaction for any sort disdain at the idea. “If that doesn’t strike your fancy, there’s a hotel a couple blocks away.”   

“I’ve spent the last couple of years sleepin’ in a muddy hole in the ground, Snaf’. The couch is perfectly fine.”

Burgie feels an odd mix of relief and disappointment from Snafu’s lack of interest in why he is there. It is the reason why he’d come here after all, because he didn’t want to think about Florence and Snafu wouldn’t ask unprompted. He is too afraid of having an actual genuine conversation about feelings for that to happen.

“Suit yourself,” Snafu says, a small smile playing on his lips for the first time since Burgie arrived. It made his usual mean-looking face look young and boyish. “C’mon, I’ll give ya a tour.”

The tour doesn’t last long, but that is probably because Snafu’s house only consists of one small, cluttered floor. It is amazing how Snafu managed to scatter around the few possessions he owns to make the living-space seem even smaller than it actually is by occupying practically every available surface. The only room that didn’t look like someone had dropped a bomb in it is Snafu’s bedroom which is almost painstakingly bare. If it hadn’t been for the rumbled sheets on the bed Burgie would have thought that no one used this room. It is a strange contrast to the rest of the house.

“I’m workin’ the day shift tomorrow so I’ve got to leave early in the mornin’, but just make yourself at home,” Snafu says as he is handing Burgie a pillow and blanket. “The coffee is above the sink, and if you want breakfast I ain’t got no food in the house but there is a bakery just down the street.”

Burgie nods as he listens to Snafu rattle of information until it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know how he’d get a hold of him if he needs to. “Where do you work? In case we need to get in touch for some reason,” he clarifies when he earns a curiously raised eyebrow from Snafu at the question.   

“I work in a small bistro down by the river. It’s called le Mouton Noir. Mostly locals who pop by though sometimes the odd, lost tourist stumbles in as well.”

“Le Mount Noir,” Burgie reiterates slowly, the French name feeling completely wrong as it stumbles off his tongue.

At least it makes Snafu snort a laugh and repeat it for Burgie again, the name sounding a lot nicer and natural coming from him who actually knew how to speak the language. After a lot of attempts to say the name, Burgie eventually has to ask Snafu to just write it down on a piece of paper. In case he needs to ask around to find it, it is a lot easier to just show people that instead of totally butchering the pronunciation and accidentally insulting someone.

They say their goodnights and Burgie curls up on Snafu’s couch. A spring is digging into his side, but the couch is surprisingly soft and Burgie feels himself sink into the cushions. He is so tired after a long day of travelling and feeling on edge with apprehension, but sleep manages to evade him as his mind tells him how much of a coward he is running away from his problems like this, by bothering Snafu with this. Burgie doesn’t know what else to do though. He couldn’t stay home. He couldn’t travel to Australia, Florence had even specifically told him not to. There is nowhere else for him to go.    

Nights like these, Burgie can’t pinpoint when he falls asleep or if he sleeps at all. All he knows is that he becomes aware of himself again a few hours later when the sweet smell of coffee filters into the room and rouses him from that limbo between wakefulness and sleep.

Venturing into the kitchen in just his briefs, he finds Snafu sitting there already dressed with a coffee mug in one hand and today’s paper in the other. He looks about as exhausted as Burgie feels.

“Didn’t expect you to be up this early,” Snafu says, his gaze returning to the newspaper after getting over his initial surprise of seeing Burgie already awake and half-naked in his kitchen.

“Farmer’s son.” Burgie’s voice is scratchy from disuse, and he clears his throat as he takes a seat by the kitchen table which has magically been cleared for all the dishes and junk from the day before. Instead, all there is are a clean mug and a can of coffee sitting there, just waiting to be used.

Snafu hums understandingly and they slip into a comfortable silence as Snafu continues to read the paper and Burgie pours himself coffee in the mug Snafu’s prepared for him. Burgie realises that the two of them haven’t shared a morning like this one since their stay in Pavuvu before Sledge had entered the picture. It’s peaceful and Burgie has missed it, this quiet companionship.

After a while, Snafu announces that he has to run so he isn’t late for his shift, leaving Burgie to his own devices for the day. Burgie notices with a hint of concern that Snafu doesn’t eat anything before he is out the door, and it makes him wonder if he actually ate much at all these days. He is looking worryingly thin; thinner than he’d ever been over there when they’d been fed nothing but rice garnished with maggots.

His worry is confirmed when Burgie checks Snafu’s fridge and cupboards and only finds two bottles of Jameson, beer, coffee, and some unfamiliar rice dish with prawns in it that is only half-finished and looked like it’d been sitting there for some time. Snafu really wasn’t joking when he said he didn’t have any food.

Burgie decides that if he is going to be hogging Snafu’s sofa for a little while then he could at least restock and make sure that boy is properly fed for the duration.

First though, he had to make sure that he was properly fed himself before he took on this new mission.

At the bakery Snafu had told him he could get a decent breakfast, Burgie buys a ham and cheese sandwich and some pastries that smells simply so amazing that he couldn’t resist. He buys two of the pastries to share with Snafu later.

He decides to take his breakfast down by the Mississippi to watch the famous steamboats he’s heard so much about, and Burgie ends up spending his entire morning there just sitting in the grass as he watches people and boats drift by on the water. It’s only when the sun is hanging high in the sky that Burgie makes an effort to move, deciding to do some exploring of the town and familiarise himself with the area before he goes food shopping.

When Burgie finds his way back to Snafu’s house he is carrying two bags of groceries and is more tired than he has been in a long time. He hadn’t anticipated how exhausting being surrounded by so many strangers would be, constantly having to weave between and around people. He isn’t used to it and couldn’t help but feel slightly paranoid, so getting back to the safety to Snafu’s house is a welcome relief.

He stores the groceries away and starts with dinner. He isn’t the best chef, but everyone appreciates a decent mac and cheese, right? Especially if the majority of their meals consists of a strict liquid diet.

By the time Burgie hears the sound of the door opening some time later, the smell of cooked food has already filled the kitchen and he has to admit that the scent is making his stomach growl. Burgie hasn’t exactly lost his appetite since he’s come back to the states, but it just isn’t what it used to be. He struggles to keep stuff down, especially more solid foods, and he blames canned peaches and rice for ruining his body’s ability to process it.

“Damn, something smells like it’s not been prepared in an oil drum for once. What’s cookin’?” Snafu slinks up behind Burgie as he stirs the cheesy macaroni around the pot, whistling impressed as he sees the food simmering in the pot. “I was going to suggest getting takeaway, but…”

Burgie cannot help the small burst of pride at the praise. He isn’t often complimented on his cooking skills as it is usually his mother who makes most of the food at home. It is nice to surprise someone else with a proper homemade meal though. A small, secret smile tilts Burgie’s lips upwards as he remembers that there is another surprise waiting for Snafu as well. “There’s somethin’ for you sitting at the table.”

The presence hovering over his shoulder disappears and Burgie turns from the pot to watch Snafu dig through the paper bag he’s brought from the bakery. The man’s face turns into one of delight as he sees the contents inside. “You got me beignets?”

“Sure. You ought’a share with me though, they ain’t both for you.”

“We’ll see.” Snafu grins cheekily at him, picking up one of the pastries and licking the icing sugar off in one broad stripe. “I’m guessing you don’t want this one at least.”

“Those are for desert, don’t ruin your appetite!”

“But Mom!” Snafu pouts though there is a glint in his eyes as he sets his beignet on a plate so it doesn’t mix with Burgie’s unsoiled one that is still inside the paper bag.

The rest of the evening is quiet and peaceful. Snafu seems to have taken the pastry as a peace offering of sorts, an apology maybe, because he appears a lot more relaxed than he has been since Burgie arrived 24 hours ago.

They eat their dinner before they both settle into the living room for a while to have a chat and enjoy their deserts. The time passes as they talk between themselves, skating around safe topics of conversation such as work and pastimes, but never do they talk about the war or how they were currently coping and dealing with the repercussions of it.

Burgie goes to bed that night a lot more at ease and content than before, feeling that his decision to stay with Snafu maybe hadn’t been so bad after all.

He falls asleep quickly for once, not plagued by flashing lights and screams from the moment he closes his eyes. Instead, he dreams of Florence; her long, dark hair and fair skin, her rounded hips and breasts, that beautiful moan as he –

Burgie jolts awake by the sound of whimpering. He is still disturbingly attuned to the slightest noise when he sleeps, and this is no different. Even the noise itself is familiar, though Burgie would have to admit that he hasn’t heard it in a very long time.

He slinks up to Snafu’s bedroom door, just as silent as he’d be if he is sneaking up on some Jap during the night, and presses his ear to the door. The sound of muffled, pained groans and mutters is coming from the others side of the thick wood, and Burgie feels his heart clench in sympathy, because he knows those sounds intimately well; Snafu is having a nightmare.  

There is nothing he could do for Snafu though, having found himself in that position himself more than he’d like to admit. There is a reason he couldn’t stay with his family anymore with a good conscience.

A loud cry and wet breaths snaps Burgie out of his thoughts, and he knows Snafu’s woken up in a cold sweat. It isn’t long before he’ll get out of bed to clear his head.

As if on cue, Burgie hears the padding of feet against the hard floor and he rushes back to his makeshift bed in the living room. He doesn’t want Snafu catch him listening in on him, wants to spare him of that particular embarrassment of someone seeing him in the wake of a nightmare.

Snafu doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, and neither does Burgie who lies awake listening to his friend roaming around the kitchen until the sun peaks through the blinds to signal the oncoming morning.

The next day is much as the same as the one previous. Snafu goes to work, looking possibly even more exhausted than the day before, and Burgie spends the day exploring the streets of New Orleans, stopping by the book shop to pick up some new reading material that he could enjoy by the riverside. It becomes a routine they settle into quickly, where Snafu goes to work for either a day or night shift, and Burgie would find new activities to pass the time with. While it is new, this strange domesticity peacefulness feels normal between them.

Some nights Burgie attempts to cook to earn his keep while other nights Snafu comes home with takeaway. Burgie starts visiting him during his nightshift at the bistro, and Snafu spends the downtime chatting to Burgie. It felt good to have someone to talk to again.    

Snafu is slowly easing into the comfortable dynamic they used to have, even though he looks dead on his feet most of the time, but Burgie does his best not to treat him any differently than he’s always done. Snafu seems to be making the same effort for him.

There were nights where Burgie would sometimes hear Snafu’s quiet cries like he had before, but when he does, he starts retreating to the kitchen rather than the living room so he can keep Snafu company during the those long nights. Snafu never comments upon it, but the way his eyes soften and that uncharacteristic timid smile that appears at the sight of Burgie sitting by the dining table reading one of the old newspapers makes Burgie think he’s doing the right thing.  

All of a sudden over a whole month has passed and Burgie finds himself down by the bar of le Mouton Noir. Snafu is working the late shift, and Burgie had decided that it is better to have a couple of drinks than sit around in the house by himself. A man could only handle so much solitude after all.  

Burgie takes a tentative sip of his half-finished drink. It is his fifth that evening, and he feels that distinct, drunken fogginess clouding his mind and making him pleasantly dizzy. Burgie absently thinks that he should stop if he wants to function like a normal human in the morning. He takes another sip.  

The sound of glass clinking together draws his gaze up to see Snafu slide up to him behind the bar, an easy smirk on his face as he tucks some clean tumblers away. “You look tired already, Sergeant. Can’t have that, night’s still young.”

“If you’re suggesting I start at the harder stuff, Snaf’...”

“Don’t worry so much, Rom. I’m off tomorrow so we can spend the day complete commitment free. Don’t have to do nothing.” There is a dangerous glint in his eyes to accompany his shark-like grin that could only mean trouble for Burgie. “Have one on me – well, on the house. Shit ain’t cheap and I have bills to pay.”

There’s a long pause as they stare each other down, the grin on Snafu’s face not deterred by the glare Burgie levels him with.

“Fine.” Burgie sighs, knowing that he’d already lost the moment he’d stepped foot in this place earlier that day.

If possible, Snafu’s grin widen even further, showing off his surprisingly white teeth and making his face seem five years younger, before he turns around behind the bar to carefully examine the stacked shelves full of a variety of liquids in different shades of gold and brown. Snafu makes a small noise of triumph when he spots the bottle he must have thought was appropriate for the occasion and stretches for one of the bottles on the top shelf, the movement hitching his shirt up and exposing a small bit of his lean, strong back.

The sight of the tanned skin sparks something in Burgie’s chest makes his mouth feel dry, but he doesn’t get any time to examine it as Snafu pours him a healthy helping of the house strongest bourbon.

“On the house,” Snafu purrs with a wink, leaning across the bar as he presses the filled tumbler into Burgie’s hand. His fingers brush over Burgie’s own, which twitch in response, instinctively reaching for Snafu’s slender digits before catching themselves in the movement. Snafu’s smile softens as he notices the involuntary action, though the serenity of the small space between them is quickly shattered as someone shouts from the other end of the bar;   

“Hey, boy! When you’re done eye-fucking your boyfriend could I get some goddamn service over here?”

Any humour on Snafu’s face melts away as he sends Burgie a look that screams of annoyance before he walks over to the burly, mean-looking man that seems to be ready to crawl over the bar counter any second to get some service. Burgie is sure he wasn’t there a minute ago.

Burgie takes a large gulp of his new drink while he vigilantly listens to Snafu take the guy’s order. The man tries to argue that he should get the drink for free now that he’s had to wait for so long as Snafu pours him his drink. Snafu is unusually polite and patient as he explains to him that it didn’t make him privy to a free drink before the sound of glass being slammed onto the counter resonates between the walls, betraying Snafu’s restrain.

“That’ll be ten cents.”

The man grumbles something underneath his breath as he hands Snafu the money, and while Snafu doesn’t even blink, it makes Burgie instantly straighten in his seat and he can no longer pretend he isn’t spying on the interaction.

“What did you say to him?”

“None of your business, asshole.”  

The rational part of his brain tells Burgie to let it rest, but a familiar sense of protectiveness is flaring up in his chest and before he really is aware of moving he is in the man’s personal space. “He is my business, so I think you’ll find that it is.”

Burgie starts to regret that last drink when he doesn’t notice the fist swinging towards his face before it hits him squarely in the jaw.

“You’re supposed to be the responsible one out of the two of us,” Snafu says later that night when he’s closed down the bistro and there is only the two of them left. He gently presses a bag of ice onto the bruise forming around Burgie’s eye, making Burgie flinch at the pain.

“He had not right saying those things about you.”

Snafu hums. “It happens more often than you’d think. You can’t start a fist fight every time some racist asshole comes along.”

“Still.” Burgie hates that he doesn’t know how to reply to that, knowing that Snafu would not welcome the words of comfort.

“I appreciate it though. Most people don’t give enough of a shit to say somethin’ ‘bout it.”  

Snafu lifts up the bag and leans in to peer at the bruise, becoming unbearably close to where he is standing between Burgie’s spread legs.

Burgie shifts where he is perched on the barstool uncomfortably. He thinks he must have been drinking a lot more than he originally thought or maybe he’s got a concussion, because he can feel heat pooling in his stomach at the proximity, at how well Snafu fits between his thighs like that. Had Snafu always been that… pretty? His eyes slip from where they’d been staring into Snafu’s and down to his full lips. It sparks an undeniable desire in him.  

Feeling emboldened by the alcohol in his system, Burgie puts a hand on Snafu’s hip to draw him in even closer, flush against the erection straining against the material of his jeans.  

Snafu’s breathing hitches as they touch, his arms grasping onto Burgie’s shoulders for support. His lips work silently around words, and they once again catch Burgie’s attention who heedlessly closes that small distance between them.

Dry lips meet his, fitting surprisingly well against Burgie’s own. Snafu is soft and pliant, his mouth carefully parting for Burgie when he nips experimentally on Snafu’s bottom one. Licking into Snafu’s slight overbite, Burgie thinks he tastes a lot like cigarettes and alcohol.

Before Burgie’s fuzzy mind has time to catch up the situation, Snafu pulls away and chews uncertainly at his bottom lip before drawing away from Burgie completely.

Burgie, surprised with his own behaviour, lets his hands fall away where they’d found their way to Snafu’s hips. It is as if a spell has been broken, and Burgie immediately regrets having taken advantage of the situation, of Snafu’s rare display of kindness and vulnerability.  

He examines Snafu carefully, trying to gauge his reaction, but Snafu only clears his throat awkwardly and shoves the ice into Burgie’s hands, giving nothing away. “I need to finish closing up. Want to wait here or meet me back at the house?”

He is already behind the bar and ducked out of sight by the time Burgie gets his voice back enough to reply quietly. “I’ll wait.”

They don’t talk about it later.

It is almost as if it never happened, the two of them going about their days like they had done. Burgie isn’t entirely sure if he is grateful that Snafu doesn’t bring it up or if he is desolate. Maybe it isn’t bothering Snafu that his sergeant had made a move on him, but it sure does bother him.

He is so angry with himself for taking advantage of the situation. It isn’t like him to lose control like that, drunk or not. Not even when he’d met Florence at that bar in Melbourne and she immediately swept him off his feet, he had done nothing but been the polite gentleman despite several shots of clear liquor. It isn’t exactly like him to go around kissing other men either.

Kissing Snafu had been nothing like kissing Florence. His stubble scratched Burgie’s chin and his chapped lips were nothing alike Florence’s smooth ones that tasted like raspberry. Snafu’s pointy hips digging into Burgie, his dick pressed against his. It had been nothing like Florence at all – and yet…  

It is strange and new, and exciting and terrifying.

Burgie would be lying if he said he isn’t feeling conflicted about it though. He ain’t gay, he just ain’t. Burgie knew this for a fact. He had been to war for years, spent countless hours with men in various stages of undress and never once had he ever felt any attraction to any of those men. That had applied to Snafu as well. Snafu had been one of those men after all, and had definitely been one of those men who had no qualms about nudity. Burgie had seen all there was to see of Snafu, he shouldn’t suddenly be feeling any sort of attraction to him now.

Yet, days are turning into weeks and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the kiss. It’s distracting and makes him feel guilty for even doing it, especially since Florence is still so fresh in his mind. Then again, maybe it’s because of Florence that he is questioning these things. She is the reason he is living with Snafu now in the first place, after all.

Common sense is telling Burgie that he should remove himself from the situation; it isn’t fair of him to stick around. Despite what common sense is telling him though, he can’t make himself leave. Something is stopping him from packing up his bags and going out that door. He just couldn’t leave Snafu like that.

Every time the memory of the kiss he’d shared with Snafu resurfaces though, he goes through the same cycle of doubt and reflection upon his own situation. Over and over, Burgie reaches the same conclusion; despite his errors and the path that lead him back to Snafu, he can’t allow himself to disappear from the man’s life again.

It makes him feel trapped in some sort of emotional limbo though, and he has this sense that something has got to give soon. Every time he considers discussing whether or not he’s overstaying his welcome with Snafu though, he loses his courage.

Some marine he is, he thinks bitterly.

Then one evening, when they are both sitting by the kitchen table, the choice to breach the topic is taken from him when Snafu breaks their companionable silence by closing the book he’s been borrowing from Burgie with a snap of its’ spine.

Snafu sighs. “Why did you come here, Burgie?”

It is all that it takes for Burgie to tell the truth behind his reasons for seeking Snafu out. Burgie tells Snafu about Florence, about aftermath of war. How he struggled with staying home. How Florence had never showed up. The looks and the concern from his mother and father; they didn’t even know how to treat or speak to him anymore. He couldn’t bear to be the source of it, and he couldn’t stand the constant reminder of Florence absence by his side.

Meanwhile, Snafu sits there silently, patiently listening as Burgie pour his heart out. His face is impassive, but his large eyes have always been too expressive and betray his cool exterior.

While he is talking, Burgie is starting to slowly recognise why he hasn’t been able to make himself leave. Somehow, just during the brief time he’s spent in New Orleans, Snafu has become his rock in civilian life. Even though they never talked about things, there was this silent understanding and agreement between them. There is no unwarranted pity, but a comradery that feels more supportive than anything Burgie’s experienced since returning to the mother land. Snafu could truly relate in the way Burgie needs him to. But the kiss has complicated all of that and has made Burgie doubt everything he thought he knew and that he was so sure of.

In line with these realisation comes another, that maybe the confusing emotions he is fighting with himself over lately isn’t all because of Florence or his family, but maybe some of his conflicting feelings have been his own identity and how he has been dealing with it all too. It makes him wonder whether his anger is directed at them or himself.

He can’t admit this to Snafu thought, and that makes everything else he is telling him seem like half-truths. Because he is in fact only telling half the story, even if he only realised himself just now that there was more to it. He couldn’t risk Snafu pushing him away over it though, Burgie couldn’t simply let that happen. Not now.

For once, he allows himself to be selfish.

Snafu doesn’t offer any words of comfort when Burgie finishes speaking. The only reassurance that he gives is when he slides his ever-present glass of liquor over to him silently, the golden contents sloshing inside.

Burgie accepts the offering and their hands linger on the drink, their warm fingers slotting together until Burgie’s twitches involuntarily, breaking the spell and making Snafu draw away. Burgie is surprised by how much he mourns the loss of physical contact.

In attempt to distract himself from the overwhelming feelings he is experiencing, Burgie digs into his pockets and extracts the worn letter he’d kept on his person ever since he arrived all those weeks ago. Gently, he folds it out on the table, smoothing down the folds and edges before he turns it over for Snafu to see.

Snafu looks between Burgie and the letter hesitantly, assessing the piece of paper as if it is an armed bomb, before he reaches out slowly and pulls the letter towards himself. He seems thoughtful as he reads it, a concentrated frown on his face while his mouth silently moving around each finely written words. Every now and again he stops and scowls, staring hard at the dark ink before he moves on. When he finally finishes, he looks over at Burgie, the frown still on his face. “You’ve been carryin’ this with you the whole time?”

Burgie nods and takes a large gulp of Snafu’s bourbon.

Snafu chews on his bottom lip as his eyes fall back on the letter sitting between them once more. He shakes his head. “Don’t think that’s doing you any good.”

“You’re right,” Burgie concludes. He puts the glass onto the wooden table and leans back in his seat as he considers Snafu. “Hold onto it for me?”

Snafu’s eyes widen and his mouth moves silently before his expression melts into something soft that Burgie isn’t quite able to decipher. “Sure. I’ll hold onto it for you.”

Things seem to change after that.

Before their talk, Snafu had been like he’d always been. Brash and cheeky, with a slight air of danger to him no amount of spending time amongst civilians seems to rid him off. The only times Burgie ever saw him act differently before was during their nights of quiet companionship when neither of them could sleep. Now though, that seems to be the behaviour Snafu adopts around him most of the time.

The soft smiles happen when Snafu comes home from work and Burgie attempts to cook for the two of them, or when Burgie walks Snafu to work. Sometimes they will sit in silence at the small kitchen table and read, and Snafu will lean in close to ask Burgie a question about certain words, flushing slightly in embarrassment as he would do so. He makes extra coffee and leaves half of it for Burgie along with the newspaper when he goes to work in the morning. Snafu even stocks the fridge with food he knows Burgie likes. During the nights, they share cigarettes on the patio together even though it really is too cold to be sitting outside, keeping each other company while they let the chill air sooth away the nightmares and memories haunting them both.

And Burgie finds himself getting softer with Snafu too.

The tender smiles Burgie feels tugging at his lips when Snafu emerges from his bedroom those rare mornings he has managed to catch a few hours of sleep, his curls wild and half of his face marred by the imprint of his pillow. Or how he will laugh loudly at a particularly bad joke Snafu reads from the funny pages in the newspaper, and how his heart will jump in his chest when it earns him a brilliant smile from Snafu in return. When Snafu touches him, Burgie finds himself leaning into the touch, and revels in how they are all becoming more deliberate and lingering as the time go by.

In the beginning, the kneejerk reaction of leaning into Snafu’s touch had disturbed him. He had to tell himself that he didn’t want the physical affection, not from his male comrade turned housemate. That particular brand of debauchery is what got you court martialled, if not downright shot.

Yet, as time progresses, Snafu’s closeness and companionship is turning into an undeniable comfort for him. Soon enough the worries start to slip away, only lingering in the back of his mind and popping up at rare intervals when it’s easy enough to dismiss them again.

Burgie wonders if this is how Snafu had been with Sledge as well. If Sledge brought out this soft person hiding under the harsh, angry exterior Snafu presented to the world.

During one of the times Burgie reflects upon this, it occurs to him that Snafu has not mentioned Sledge at all since Burgie stepped back into his life which is strange considering how inseparable they had been during the war. When Burgie asks Snafu about Sledge however, Snafu’s eyes goes wide and defensive, and he barks something scathing at him before he storms off which makes Burgie wish he had never asked in the first place.

And that is one of the things that don’t change. They still don’t talk about stuff.  

No matter how close they are getting physically, there is still this barrier between them. Snafu refuses to open up to Burgie about how he was coping, isn’t talking to him about the nightmares or his lack of eating. Burgie wants to ask him about it, but it doesn’t feel right of him to pry. It’s Snafu’s personal matter, which made it his decision to talk about it, though Burgie really wishes he would because the man looks like he is about to keel over from sleep deprivation most days.     

No wonder, because the man barely sleeps. Burgie knows because he didn’t either. Every time he closes his eyes he is plagued by nightmares, of red and dirt. Of corpses of young men that have barely grown out of their own boyhood.

Sometimes the nightmares aren’t always there though. Sometimes they are replaced by images of Florence, her soft hair and gentle smile, her feminine curves and light complexion. But recently, for the past few weeks, the beautiful images of Flo are replaced by a flat chest, dark curls and tawny skin, a dangerous, razor-sharp smile that could cut glass, and wandering large hands that would explore every expanse of Burgie.

Those mornings Burgie finds himself waking up almost painfully hard and rubbing himself against his sheets. Burgie tries not to think about what it means when he touches himself, the images from his dream flashing in his mind and making him moan into his pillow. He does his best to hide his predicament and embarrassment when Snafu barges into the living room only moments after Burgie spills all over his own hand to loudly announce he needs caffeine.

Things continue to progress like this and Burgie feels mixed emotions from the way his body is responding to Snafu. How his skin prickles when Snafu touches him, how his stomach drops pleasantly when Snafu shares one of those secret smiles with him, trying to supress his shudders when Snafu presses up close to him when they are cooking together in Snafu’s tiny kitchen. How well he is responding to these images of Snafu as he strokes himself in the middle of the night.

This no longer about something simple as craving and convenience of the closeness of someone else which Burgie had initially thought, but his feeling seems to have only developed more since the kiss that seems so long ago now. Snafu is everywhere in Burgie’s life, overshadowing everything. Burgie thinks he should mind, that he should be disgusted and horrified with himself for his current behaviour and his connection to Snafu, but he cannot find it within himself to see how that could be wrong. It does make him wonder though; does he have feelings for Snafu?

If he does, it isn’t as obvious to him as those feelings he had for Florence. It’s lacking the intensity and strong infatuation he’d felt with her. Whilst his love for Florence had been instant and passionate, whatever he is feeling for Snafu is something warm and undeniably familiar.

Burgie doesn’t think he is a homosexual, though. In fact, he knows he isn’t, because otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen for Florence, right? But he couldn’t keep pretending that the person who he saw in his mind’s eye when he was touching himself wasn’t a particular Cajun man. He couldn’t ignore that fuzzy warmth that unfolds in him when Snafu shares those rare displays of affection with him either.

Did that qualify as love though? And if so, what did it make him?    

These questions that haunt him from the second they pop into his head. It makes it difficult to focus, particularly around Snafu who reminds him of his predicament. It’s almost like they are taunting him, and Burgie starts to feel pressured and stressed that he can’t seem to find a simple answer to these questions that are begging to be answered.

Thankfully, his self-imposed mental torture comes to an abrupt end one evening when Burgie is jerked from sleep by a loud bang.

His heart is beating hard in his chest and cold sweat is beading on his forehead as he is transported back to a different, more violent time. He blinks rapidly as his tries to adjust to the blackness surrounding him, hands clenching tightly into the stiff fabric of his blankets. His breathing and heart only stills when he recognises where he is. He’s safe in Snafu’s small house, far away from any Japanese soldiers and flying shells.     

A bright flash and another loud explosion from outside the living room window causes Burgie to tense in his seat and curse quietly to himself. He really hates fireworks now. It is too reminiscent of things he’d rather forget about. He sits listening to the fireworks for a long time, focusing on the distance of the sounds of the explosions, at the bright, glaring colours flashing through the window of the living room. Everything, every miniscule detail that helps ground him in the present and away from those terrible islands.   

As the last of the round of fireworks fade away with a whistle, a muffled sob sounds from down the hallway. Burgie isn’t even aware he has moved until he finds himself with an ear pressed against the hard wood of the closed door to Snafu’s room for the nth time since the first night he’d heard Snafu’s cries. Hitched breaths come from the other side and Burgie feels his heart twist as he realises who exactly is making those anguished sounds.  

His hand grips the doorknob tightly, but the cold brass against his palm giving him pause as his mind starts racing.

It feels like he is about to intrude on something private, something too intimate and raw that he isn’t supposed to see. God knew they haven’t talked about this shit, have avoided it like the plague, and now Burgie is about to burst in and potentially ruin this fragile reality that they’ve created between themselves. That reality that has become a safe haven of sorts, that feels like escape from all the horrors taunting them when they are alone. For him to go in there now, he would be blurring those lines, imposing on Snafu’s personal demons and bringing his own in with him, and that definitely isn’t fair on either of them.

But then the sob comes again in the wake of another round of fireworks going off and Burgie pushes open the door, leaving his concerns at its’ threshold. He could worry about the repercussions of his actions later.  

It takes a moment for Burgie to orient himself in the darkness. The bare room is void of lights or lamps which allows the black of night to swallow its’ surroundings whole and leaving nothing to be seen. The next firework that goes off is almost a blessing then, lighting up the bedroom in a sickly green, just enough for Burgie to spy the shape of a person squeezed in-between the narrow space of the bed and dresser.

Snafu is curled up on himself. He has drawn his knees tight to his chest and he is shivering from head to toe. His head is tucked between his legs, and his long fingers are digging into his scalp and are white from tension, as if Snafu is scared shells are about to drop onto him at any moment.

“Shelton?” Burgie tries cautiously. He is not exactly sure how to approach the distressed man, he has never seen him like this before; it’s impossible for him to know if Snafu is susceptible to comfort without lashing out. “Are you alright?”

Snafu freezes as he becomes aware of Burgie’s voice, his erratic breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t shout at Burgie though, doesn’t tell him to fuck off, so Burgie approaches him slowly like he would a wounded animal before he crouches down in front of Snafu. A long, quiet moment passes where Burgie scrutinises Snafu expectantly, silently begging him to let him in.

How quickly Snafu’s resolve crumbles under Burgie’s stare is a testament to how upset and fucked up he is feeling.

“It’s been a year, Burgie. A fucking year and this kind of silly, childish shit still fuck me up.” Snafu hiccups, before he laughs without any humour. He wipes his nose on the inside of his wrist. “Shit, I am so fucking exhausted.”

Without a word, Burgie pushes the dresser further to the side of the wall and squeezes down next to Snafu, so they are both sitting snuggly pressed between the two pieces of furniture. This new, closer angle lets Burgie get a proper view of Snafu then, and Burgie sees the sheen layer of sweat coating his neck and face, and the tear tracks that are painting rivers down his cheeks. Another round of firework goes off in the distance, and Burgie senses Snafu tense up like a bowstring next to him.  

Burgie knows this feeling, this feeling of his mind being somewhat aware of his surroundings but his body reacting instinctively and with unmistakable fear. It’s like his body is dragging his mind down a slippery slope of memories, sights and places full of death and destruction, and eventually you cannot tell what you are seeing is the present or the past.

It was what the old breed called shell shock. Some people would lose their minds because of it, like Daniels did. The older marines always spat the words with a certain level of disdain, as if it was an indication of a total lack of moral fibre. Burgie doesn’t think that is the case, neither does he think shell shock is an apt description. It doesn’t feel anything like shock, more like inescapable panic, fear and discombobulation.

His parents didn’t know what to do with him the first, second or even the third time he reacted like this to seemingly everyday things. In the end, their lack of understanding for how he struggled to adjust to civilian life and Florence’s absence has been what had tipped the scales for him and brought him to Snafu. He had been so tired of being treated like glass, like something already broken and unfixable when all he did was having a normal reaction to something no one should ever have to experience.

Now the situation is turned on its’ head as he is sitting there pressed up against Snafu whose entire body is quivering with the effort of clamping down on his own rampant emotions and memories.

Burgie feels for him and he can no longer lie to himself and pretend it’s purely in a platonic way.

The way his heart aches in his chest at the sight of Snafu in such distress, begging him to reach out and comfort the other man, isn’t anything like he ever felt before. Not previous to the Pacific, not during, and not after, and Burgie is too tired to resist it anymore, doesn’t want to anymore.

Maybe he isn’t homosexual but he doesn’t think he can call himself straight anymore either. That’s an epiphany he has to deal with later though, as Snafu hiccups and wipes his hands down his tear-stained face.

Reaching over, Burgie settles his arms around Snafu’s form and pulls him impossibly closer. For a moment, Burgie thinks Snafu will draw away judging from the way he stiffens against him. It triggers the memory of the last time the two of them were this close at the bistro, but Burgie forces himself back to the present. Unlike that time, he tries to be observant of Snafu’s reaction rather than just doing what his body wants him to do.

“Is this okay?” Burgie whispers, worried that Snafu will run again if he speaks too loudly. His arm is firmly wrapped around the other man, but he is ready to let go in an instant if Snafu turns him down.

Thankfully, Snafu nods. He refuses to look at Burgie though.

Burgie can’t help but notice how Snafu’s form fits awkwardly in his arms, how his sharp angles are digging into his side. It makes him all that much aware that the person he has wrapped himself around is a man, but Burgie finds that he is surprisingly at peace with it. Snafu’s body is warm against him and his closeness is comforting in a way no one else seems to be these days.

There is a loud explosion once more outside and the room lights up in a pale yellow this time. Snafu flinches.

“I hate fireworks,” Burgie comments quietly in an attempt to distract the man. Carefully, Burgie threads his fingers through the curls at the back of Snafu’s head, hoping that it would ground and comfort him. “I think coming to visit New Orleans during Mardi Gras season was a pretty bad idea on my part. Maybe I should have just whisked you away with me instead.”

Snafu huffs noncommittal and puts his head on Burgie’s shoulder. Burgie pretends not to hear how Snafu chokes on another sob.  

“I could have taken you with me on a road trip or something, to see the US. Travel cross-country. Maybe even go up north to Canada,” Burgie says as he continues threading his fingers through Snafu’s hair and massaging his scalp. “Perhaps someday I will.”

They sit like this for a long time. Burgie will be stroking Snafu’s hair while Snafu sits there tense and listening to the noises coming from the outside world. By the time the fireworks starts to dim off it is well past four in the morning Snafu is getting heavier against Burgie as he finally relaxes enough for his exhaustion to catch up to him.

Burgie considers Snafu’s heavy lids for a couple of minutes before he nudges him to get his attention. “C’mon, you should get some sleep.”

Snafu’s eyes blink back to life and he glances over at Burgie. He’s so close that his hot breath puffs against Burgie’s cheek, and Burgie is once again reminded of that evening that the bar and Snafu’s lips pressed to his. All it would take to kiss him again is for Burgie to tilt his head just so, but he has to exercise some self-restrain. Snafu is vulnerable right now and this is not the time.

Burgie admits that it takes a lot of willpower to not do it, as Snafu chews his lips thoughtfully while his eyes searches Burgie's for something. There’s an anxious edge to him as it looks like his mind is working overtime to voice whatever he wants to say.

“Stay, would’ya? Just for a little while.”

And Burgie does, because he is only one man and self-restrain has never been his strong suit.

The sun is peaking through the window the next time Burgie blinks awake. His mind struggles with remembering where he is until he recalls the events of last night and that he had curled up in Snafu’s bed with the man in the wee hours of morning. He then frowns as he wonders what has robbed him of the best, most blissful sleep he’s had in ages.

His question is quickly answered when he feels something hard pressing against his hip, rocking slowly against him. The gentle motions are accompanied by breathy huffs and he looks over at the source of the disturbance who is lying next to him, Snafu’s front pressing up against Burgie.

A warm flush rushes through Burgie’s body and face as he realises what Snafu is doing in his sleep; he undoubtedly having a very pleasant dream. His eyes are moving underneath closed lids and his mouth is slack, with even a tiny bit of drool pooling in the corner of his mouth.  

Burgie thinks he should wake him up. All it would take is for Burgie to retract his arm that is trapped underneath Snafu's body, jostling him just enough to nudge him awake. Snafu doesn’t know what he is doing so it isn’t fair to let it go on, especially considering that Snafu wouldn’t ever be humping Burgie like this if he was even remotely conscious.

Then, Snafu moans quietly, as if he could sense that Burgie was about to pull away. “Burgie.”

Whatever thoughts are running through Burgie's mind immediately vanish, they might as well have not been there in the first place, Burgie is so befuddled by how Snafu just moaned his name. Is he having a nightmare, is that why he is moaning like that? It doesn’t sound like he is having a bad dream though, but Burgie might have heard him wrong. Snafu couldn’t possibly –

“Fuck, Burgie,” Snafu moans again as he thrust into Burgie's hip. His face is pressed into the pillow and he emits a whine, his lips twisting into a small, concentrated pout.

Burgie feeling something stir to life in the pit of his stomach, warming his insides and begging for attention. Burgie's fingers itch to reach out and satisfy that need. Usually, he’d do it without even thinking about it; masturbating to the dreams and fantasies of Snafu naked and trapped underneath him, sweating and panting as their bodies slide together in a blur of peachy tones and squirming limbs... It’s been a frequent occurrence for a while now.  

It wouldn’t be right to adhere to the need now though, not when Snafu is lying there right next to him. It would be to take advantage of his trust, hospitality and vulnerability, and Burgie would never betray Snafu like that. As awkward as the upcoming interaction will be because of both their obvious predicaments, Burgie can’t let this go on.

“Snafu.” As gently as he can, he pushes Snafu’s curls away from his forehead with the arm that isn’t trapped underneath the other man. His hair is surprisingly soft, Burgie notes. He really hadn’t paid much attention to it last night, but now he wishes he’d revelled in it more. Now though, he doesn’t have that opportunity as Snafu blinks to awareness, his big eyes unclear until they focus on Burgie who is lying nose to nose to Snafu. “You were talking in your sleep,” Burgie says as matter-of-factly as he can, trying not to reveal how much he enjoyed hearing Snafu moan his name like that.   

Snafu lies frozen, the only tell indicting that Snafu is heard him is the way his eyes widens into saucers and his mouth moves silently. Then, a bright blush spreads across his face and Snafu has never looked so embarrassed in all the time Burgie has known him.

“'m sorry,” he mutters, averting his gaze ashamed. He’s obviously made some assumptions about what he could have said already.

When Snafu makes a reluctant move to pull away this time around though, Burgie uses the arm that is trapped underneath him to curl around Snafu’s lean back and pull him flush against his side. With this additional pressure, Burgie wiggles his hips to create friction against Snafu’s erection, hoping to elicit a reaction from the man. He can’t help but feel pleased at how Snafu gasp into his neck.

“Don’t be sorry,” Burgie says, sounding more confident than he feels. He brushes a thumb over Snafu’s sharp cheekbone while he searches Snafu’s face for any hint of resistance. All he sees is Snafu’s dilated pupils. He speaks in hushed tones as he voices the questions he has been trying to get an answer to for weeks, “Is that something you’ve been thinking about… us?”

“There ain’t no us.” Snafu sounds spiteful, though Burgie hears the underlying tone of sadness and insecurity there too. It is missing the usual assurance Snafu laced his every word with. “And there never will be.”

Snafu wants this as much as Burgie does.

The realisation makes Burgie's mouth dry, all the words he wishes to say lodging themselves in his throat. It is as if his body is telling him not to say what is on his mind, knowing fully well that it could ruin their friendship. Yet, Burgie knows these past few weeks haven’t just been in his head, that his feelings and what they’ve shared has been genuine. Those feelings couldn’t possibly be wrong, not if Snafu feels it too.

“Shelton, it’s been an us this whole time.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath before Burgie feels chapped, soft lips brush against his own. They are incredibly gentle at first, almost not touching Burgie’s own lips, giving Burgie a chance to pull away. If Burgie kiss him back now, it is the point of no return for them and they both know it. There is no way that they could go back to what they had been. But then, if he pulls away, what would Burgie be missing out on with Snafu?

When their lips meet this time around, it’s nothing like the kiss Burgie had stolen that night at the bistro. While that one had been rushed and uncertain, this one is sweet and slow. It elicits a pleased hum from Burgie, who thinks this one is so much better than anything he’s been fantasizing about.

They lie like this for a long time, kissing languidly while their torsos are pressed close and their bare legs are tangled together. It’s the gentlest, most unhurried battle for dominance where they nip and lick at each other at every accessible expanse of lips and skin. Every now and then, Burgie will gently tug at Snafu’s curls and Snafu will moan appreciative into his mouth in response. The sounds send pleasant shivers down Burgie's spine and he smiles as he presses another kiss to Snafu’s lips.

Then, Snafu being the little shit he is, strokes a hand down Burgie’s ribs just light enough to surprise a giggle out of Burgie who twitches underneath Snafu’s clever fingers.

“Snafu, stop it,” Burgie wheezes as Snafu continues to tickle him while wearing a big, mischievous grin. When Snafu hits a particularly sensitive spot, Burgie squeaks. “You dickhead, stop,” he laughs and pushes at Snafu’s hands.

It develops into a wrestling match, where Snafu tries to take advantage of his new discovery that is Burgie’s ticklishness and Burgie tries to evade him. All the while, they are laughing and giggling as they fight to get out on top. Then, everything comes to an abrupt halt when they roll and Snafu is suddenly sitting in Burgie’s lap and Burgie feels his erection straining against Snafu’s ass.

They stare at each other uncomprehendingly for a moment before Burgie experimentally pushes his hips up in a gentle thrust.

It elicits another gasp from Snafu who proceeds to look abashed as he asks, “Do you want to? Y’know.”

“I do,” Burgie replies quickly. It occurs to him though that he has no experience with another guy like that. “How do we…?”

They look at each other for a long moment.

“I have never done it before. With another fella.” The admission is almost not loud enough for Burgie to hear, Snafu’s voice barely audible. Burgie can’t detect any nervousness or trepidation from him though, only anticipation for what is about to happen.

While Burgie has no experience with sleeping another man, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard the other marines talk about it in hushed whispers. Every time someone would be court martialled, the guys would discuss what could have caused the call for trial and most times there were speculations about sodomy between young marines. The guys always talked about it with a mix of disgust and curiosity, going into great detail about the how’s of it. Some of them knew a surprising amount about the intricacies of anal sex. Burgie would have never guessed then that he would ever have any use for all that knowledge those men had passed onto him.

In reply to Snafu's confession, he silently leans forward and tilts his head up just so he can place a careful kiss on Snafu’s lips. It’s as much as a reassurance to Snafu as it is to Burgie himself, who pulls back a bit and chew on his bottom lip thoughtfully, contemplating whether or not he should voice the question that is begging to be asked.

When Snafu slowly blinks open his eyes again, revealing those stormy seas of blues and greens, Burgie rushes out his question before he loses his nerve, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Oh my fucking god. Yes.” Snafu’s pupils are blown wide and his chest heaves as he draws a sharp intake of breath at the suggestion. He firmly places his large hands on Burgie’s torso, pushing him back so he is flat on the bed. “I want you inside of me. Please, fuck.”

Burgie feels a spark of excitement and his confidence soar. “I’ll be so good to you,” Burgie says hotly as his fingers lightly graces the lower part of Snafu’s abdomen teasingly. He has never been one to talk a lot during sex but for some reason, the way Snafu is responding to his attention and particularly his words makes him want to keep talking. “You’ll be begging for me to touch you, to let you come.”

Snafu swirls atop of him, seeking out friction from the material of Burgie's briefs and his hard cock underneath. It’s not long before he growls in frustration though and tugs at the offending fabrics between them until both of their underwear are tossed aside and lost in a far corner of the dimly lit room.

With the absence of their briefs Snafu is quick to reassume his position and rut against him, though Burgie stays still to simply enjoys the small spikes of pleasure that gives him without engaging. He is too busy caressing Snafu’s smooth skin while mesmerized by how the light from the sun carves out and harshen the dips and angles on his body as if he was made out of marble. The visual is such a hypnotising contrast to the warm, soft flesh underneath his palms.

Snafu must be getting impatient with Burgie’s lack of response as he pushes against the fingers resting on his abdomen, but Burgie only let his fingers ghost from his abdomen to over his pointed hips and his ass, up his back and down again. It’s not nearly enough for Snafu who huffs in frustration before his cock twitch between his legs, emitting a whine from him. Burgie eventually takes some pity on him and he lets his fingers fall to brush against Snafu’s puckered hole, which clench enticingly at the touch.

“Do you have any…?”

Before Burgie can even finish the question, a small tube of Vaseline appears in Snafu’s hand. Burgie watches mesmerized as Snafu coats his fingers with well-practised ease and lies down atop of Burgie so they’re chest against chest. With a smug grin, the Cajun shares another kiss with Burgie before he bites down viciously at his bottom lip as his hand wrap around Burgie’s erection.

It feels amazing and painful all at once and Burgie isn’t sure if the groan it prompts out of him is due to the pleasure of Snafu touching him or the sting of his newly punctured lip. Soon though, it’s undoubtedly Snafu's skilled hands which are twisting and stroking up and down that is making Burgie squirm and make obscene noises.

It’s easy for Burgie to let Snafu take control of the situation. While Snafu prepares him with the lube, Snafu mouths and nips at Burgie, his lips and chin and neck. Snafu is vicious and gentle all at once, biting down hard and kissing the fresh, rapidly forming bruises left in his wake.

Meanwhile, Burgie is caressing Snafu’s back, trailing fingers over his ribs and the cleft of his ass. He gives one of the cheeks a firm squeeze before he curiously prods the pad of a finger against Snafu's entrance before it slowly slips inside.

Snafu hisses in protest at the sudden intrusion, though he doesn’t stop his administrations to Burgie’s cock or lets his attention stray from Burgie’s nipples which he is having fun playing with.

“Ride me.” The request is rolling off Burgie's tongue before he is even aware of thinking of that particular fantasy that he’s had in the past. The idea Snafu fucking himself on Burgie’s dick, slowly sinking down onto him is incredibly enticing though, and he feels his lower belly tingle in anticipation at the prospect.

Snafu’s hand that is tending to Burgie disappears abruptly and find its’ way to Burgie’s chest, where the digits fan out and Snafu’s blunt nails dig into Burgie’s skin and tugging at the hairs there. “You should probably be preparing me –” His hole clenches around Burgie's finger that’s still inside of him. “Or something, right?”

The eyes that meet Burgie's are incredibly dilated but reveal some of the anxiety he’d previously expected from Snafu, but Burgie knows now that it has nothing to do with him but rather the unknown territory they’re about to enter. He is nervous too, but with it also comes excitement and mischief at the thought of the sinful action they are about to commit.

“We'll take it slow. Okay?” Burgie laces his fingers with Snafu’s, giving them a reassuring squeeze. When Snafu nods and squeeze back after a moment, Burgie gestures towards the Vaseline Snafu has carelessly thrown towards the foot of the bed. “Help me with that, will you?”

After some fumbling with the lid of the tube and such, Burgie carefully inserts a now lubed-up digit into Snafu who pushes himself slowly back onto the finger. There’s no protest from him this time and Burgie smiles to himself, pleased, as he continues to finger the other man.

Burgie pushes himself up so he is sitting pressed up chest-to-chest to Snafu while he scissors his fingers, focusing on stretching Snafu open as they share a heated kiss. Snafu makes small, wet noises every now and again, but stays obediently still as Burgie massages and explores his insides. By the time Burgie has inserted three fingers all the way down to the knuckles though, Snafu is twitching and rutting against his hand, wanting more. He is panting into Burgie’s neck and when Burgie crooks his fingers, he moans obscenely.

“Shit.” Snafu pulls his head back and he looks slightly delirious and out of it, his eyes distant as they meet Burgie’s. He frames Burgie’s face between his palms gently, making Burgie stop his movements and properly look at him. “Are you ready? I think I am ready.”   

“You sure?”

Snafu’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Yeah. Yes, I’m good.” He shifts his weight so he props himself up on his knees, freeing Burgie’s hard cock from where it was trapped underneath his weight, giving Burgie room to adjust himself so he is aligned to Snafu’s hole.

They share a long, intense moment of eye-contact before Snafu gently sinks down Burgie’s shaft, mouth slipping open and his eyes slipping shut at the sensation. His breathing turns ragged and there’s a pained expression knitting his brows together, but it is obvious that he is trying to hide it by the way he dips his chin away so his features aren’t so visible.

“Is this fine?” Burgie asks quietly, stroking up Snafu’s side. “Snaf’, y’got to tell me if it ain’t.”

Snafu takes a deep, composing breath and points his nose back up, squaring his shoulders. “No, it’s alright. I just feel... strange.” _Vulnerable_. Snafu doesn’t say it but Burgie knows that expression. Burgie also knows Snafu would never admit to it, so he decides to drop it and presses a reassuring kiss to Snafu’s lips.

“Okay,” Burgie mutters against Snafu’s mouth. “But you fucking talk to me the whole way, alright. That’s an order.”

The only reply Burgie gets is a nip of his bottom lip before Snafu shifts in his lap, sending a jolt of pleasure up Burgie’s spine.    

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Burgie gasps, gripping onto Snafu’s ass to keep him still. If he keeps that up, Burgie would not last for long. It isn’t an issue that he has ever had before, but he’s never found himself with a lap full of a beautiful Cajun man with big curls and a devilish grin either.   

Said grin is currently unfolding on Snafu’s face and Burgie has a growing sense of trepidation, and he digs his fingers deeper into the other man’s skin in warning. It does nothing to prevent Snafu from rolling his hips in a steady, repetitive motion until Burgie is practically begging him to stop.

“Never pegged you for the type to misfire –” Snafu purrs teasingly in his ear. “Sergeant."

His dick twitches with arousal where it’s nested inside of Snafu and Burgie growls, gripping onto Snafu’s ass tight enough to lock the man in place. It’s enough to make Snafu’s smug grin melt away, and Burgie only takes a moment to be self-satisfied before he thrusts into the man.

The world around them seems to melt away as Burgie continues to push into Snafu over and over in a fast, steady rhythm. Meanwhile, Snafu is clinging onto him like his life depends on it, his arms hugging Burgie’s shoulders while he sinks down onto Burgie for every time he pushes up into him.

It feels fucking fantastic but it doesn’t take long before Burgie can feel himself needing more friction, the angle and pace not being enough. So, in a moment of daringness, he looks his legs behind Snafu’s knee and flips him over so Burgie is hovering above him and trapping him between his elbows. He examines the shocked, open-mouthed expression on Snafu’s face smugly, watches as that expression quickly shifts into one full of lust.

Capturing his lips with his teeth, Burgie pushes into Snafu again. He winds his arms under the arch of the small of Snafu’s back and lifts him up so they are pressed together, every expanse of skin of them touching while Burgie picks up the tempo.

This new angle elicits a deep moan from Snafu who digs his nails into Burgie’s shoulder-blades. “Oh fucking Christ. Do that again.”

Burgie isn’t exactly sure it is what he did, but he focus all his attention on pounding into Snafu in that same spot, pushing into him all the way down to the root of his cock. He must be doing something right because it isn’t long before Snafu is clinging to him and begging, sounding breathless while tears are brimming in the corner of his eyes.

It’s difficult to pay attention to the nonsensical word streaming out of Snafu's mouth though. Burgie himself is so wrapped up in the feeling of Snafu’s asshole and how wonderfully tight he is. It creates this wonderful friction, especially when Snafu clench around him when he hits that spot that makes Snafu turn into a quivering mess.

It is better than Burgie could ever have imagined. The sweaty skin against skin and Snafu’s noises of encouragement sends excited, pleasurable shivers up and down Burgie's entire body, and it’s not long before Burgie feels himself toeing that edge.

“Merriell, I’m getting close.”

Snafu pause below him to look at him with a clear set eyes on a sweat-drenched face and he smiles the most uncharacteristic, serene smile. He places a palm on Burgie’s cheek. “You called me Merriell.”

When Burgie slows his movement to look at Snafu in confusion, Snafu clarifies, “You’ve not called me that since boot camp.” He slides his fingers into Burgie’s hair and pushes himself further onto Burgie’s cock, nestling him deeper inside of him. “Do it again.”

This time Burgie knows exactly what Snafu is asking of him and he meets Snafu with a thrust of his own. “Merriel,” he whispers into Snafu’s ear and wraps a hand around the man’s neglected erection straining between their bodies. “Merriell, Merriell, my Merriell,” Burgie chants softly with each time he thrusts into him, letting the palm of his hand stroke along the man’s shaft with every push.

They move in synchronised motion but Snafu is slowly being pushed further up the mattress despite his effort to meet Burgie’s thrust every time. He is curled around Burgie, his legs having moved up to circle his waist as their pace increases, and Burgie takes great pleasures in the sounds he is making for him.     

When Burgie comes, he can feel it all the way from his toes to his fingertips, the tingling sensations rushing through every muscle. Burgie moans loudly, and with a final thrust, he buries himself far into Snafu to hit that spot one more time while he kisses Snafu with all teeth and tongue, wanting them to finish and plummet over that edge in free fall together.

Snafu’s warm fluids coats his fingers and their bellies moments after Burgie empties himself into him, and he keeps close eye on how the other man's full lips part and his brows knit together as Snafu rides out his orgasm.

Silence falls between them when they’re both dried out, the only sound in the small room being their heaving breaths. It’s oppressive and Burgie feels the need to break the quiet. “Fuck,” he says eloquently, his brain not being able to provide anything more insightful than that.   

“Yeah,” Snafu agrees, looking about as lost and euphoric as Burgie feels.

They share a look before they both burst out laughing, the gravity of their situation dawning on them. The two of them, old comrades and veterans of three major battles no less, have just slept together. It had been intimate and wonderful, and Burgie thinks while it is brand new it had felt incredibly familiar. As if Snafu is an old lover that knows Burgie inside and out.

As their laughter dies down, Burgie presses a kiss to Snafu’s neck with a chuckle. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. It’s almost as if someone fucked me up the ass,” Snafu quips and drapes an arm over Burgie’s back, hugging him close.

It feels nice, Burgie thinks; Safe.

For a long time they lie like this. They only move a fraction when Snafu complains that Burgie is too heavy and decides it’s appropriate to push him off, only to snake around him again once they are both lying on their sides.

Burgie doesn’t know how much time passes; it might have been minutes, it might have been days, but it is plenty enough for him to contemplate his feelings for Snafu again.

He comes to the conclusion that this new development in their relationship isn’t surprising. Burgie knows Snafu better and for longer than anyone else his age, and they’ve already been through so much together. All that war and all that grime, dirt and blood they’d seen together and still persevered. These last few weeks only cemented their relationship further, showed Burgie how much he took comfort and cherished Snafu and his company.

Whatever he is feeling for Snafu could never replace his love for Florence, but then again, it didn’t need to. Somehow the two doesn’t conflict in his mind, and Burgie thinks that maybe they each gave him what he needed at particular times in his life. Florence showed him the courage and affection he needed when he was young and about to go into a war he didn’t know if he would survive, and now Snafu is showing him the unique support and understanding he needs for the aftermath of said war.

There is a strange peace that settles over him with this revelation and he pulls even closer to Snafu to rest his head on the man’s lean chest. With a heavy sigh, he closes his eyes and listens to the steady thrum of Snafu’s heartbeat.

This time around, they do talk about it.

They stay in bed and talk about how they’ve been, about the war, and about them. It’s almost like now that they’re actually talking and starting to open up to each other about these things it is difficult to stop, though Burgie finds he could listen to Snafu’s deep, soothing accent speak for what feels like forever. Of course, it doesn’t mean they don’t yell or get distant with each other anymore, but it helps knowing that they both need the space and patience the other provides without worrying of pushing them away. They always find back to each other.

Time passes like this, with ups and downs and all the physical intimacy and sex Burgie could have ever imagined. Then somehow, without Burgie knowing about the why’s and when’s, he’s been with Snafu for half a year.

It’s why he finds himself standing in a phone booth on the street outside of Snafu’s house, getting told off by his mother over the receiver for not having made a sound in her direction since he left Texas with only a written note saying he would be gone for a while all those months ago.

“Honestly I’m fine, there's really no need to worry about me. No, I don’t think I’ll be coming back for quite some time, Ma,” Burgie says, doing his best to appease his mother. She isn’t one to get angry but he doesn’t think this calm disapproval is any better. “I’ll send you the address, so you know where to send them. Say hi to everyone from me. Yeah, I’ll tell Shelton you said hi. I’ll call again soon. Okay. I love you too. Bye.” He hangs the receiver back on its' hook and takes a deep breath.

He'd been dreading the call for days, but it felt good to speak to his mother and let her know he is alive and well. She is curious as to where he has been naturally, asking a lot of questions he isn’t able to answer. It’s uncomfortable because Burgie feels like he is lying to her in a way. Then again, Burgie isn’t sure she really needed the answers, but rather just needed to hear his voice and know he has been coping okay.

They’d talked for a long time, but eventually Burgie was running out of quarters so it had been a good excuse to get away from all the questions.

“How’s the old folks?” Snafu asks from the living room where Burgie finds him after he steps back into the house. He is lounging on the sofa with a book resting open and untouched next to him.

“Good. Ma says hi.”

Burgie leans down to press a quick peck to his lips, but Snafu apparently crave more by the way he wraps his arm around his neck and pulls him down next to him. He sneaks cold hands underneath his shirt and nuzzles into Burgie's neck.

The arms around Burgie is like vice, hugging him tightly until Burgie let’s himself relax into Snafu. He hadn't realised how wound up he’d been, but somehow Snafu has seen it and isn’t letting Burgie dwell on it. Snafu really is a lot more empathetic than people gave him credit for.

There’s a long silence before either of them speak.

“Hey,” Snafu says and pulls away a little. His expression is unsure as he reaches for the book next to him and plays with something resting between the cracks of the pages. “I still have that letter. The one you asked me to have for safekeeping.”

Between Snafu's fingers is the worn, yellowed letter from Florence where she tells him all the reasons why she can’t come to America and be with him, all her excuses and perfectly understandable reasons as to why she won’t leave Australia. It isn’t as painful to think about anymore, because in a strange turn of events it has been a blessing. Without it, he would never had travelled all the way to New Orleans and reunited with Snafu. He would have never seen this secret soft side of this beautiful man.

“What do you want to do with it?”

After thinking about it for a long while, Burgie settles on, “Throw it away.” The decision doesn’t sit right in his mind though; it is almost a spiteful action. As if his love for Florence hadn’t mattered at all. He doesn’t see any reason to keep it either however, as it only serves as a reminder to both of them about what could have been.

Snafu stares at him for a long while, his gaze scrutinizing and thoughtful, before he shrugs. “Alright, if that’s what you want,” he says breezily, effectively ending the conversation. He finally looks away, his attention back to the letter between his hands. “Did I tell you that I’ve been thinkin’ of going back to the Pacific?” He shrugs as his gaze stays solely on the piece of paper in front of him. “Y’know, like, take a final swim in it and let it wash away all of the shit it left me with. Like a second baptism, but without all that religious bullshit.”

Burgie frowns at the sudden change of topic. It’s not normal for Snafu to be this cryptic about the war, he is always rather blunt and crude with his statements of all the Pacific’s horrors. It makes Burgie suspect that he might actually be referring to his unrequited feelings for Sledge, the ones that still lingers some days and make Snafu distant and cold. Considering the conversation they’d just had though, Burgie cannot help but wonder what brought this topic on so suddenly.

“Maybe,” Snafu starts, suddenly sounding hesitant. “You should let it do the same for you.”

Florence’s letter is pushed into his hands, and Burgie stares absently at the familiar scrawl of faded black ink against yellowed paper. He has never pegged Snafu for the type to suggest something like that but he supposes it is poetic in a way; letting the Pacific take back what had been given to him while he had over there.

Gently tracing along the fine lettering where Florence had signed her name, he takes a moment to mourn her one final time before he makes his decision; “Do you want to go for a swim in the Pacific with me, Merriell?”


End file.
